


Ghostwood

by Selden



Category: Twin Peaks
Genre: F/M, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Season/Series 03, Weirdness, and woods, brief foray into metafiction, mild body horror
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-18
Updated: 2017-12-18
Packaged: 2019-02-16 08:18:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,602
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13050123
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Selden/pseuds/Selden
Summary: Her name is Audrey, and she lives inside the Roadhouse.





	Ghostwood

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Lynzee005](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lynzee005/gifts).



Her name is Hester, Hester Prynne, and she lives inside a department store.

“So, Billy comes crashing in and hangs his head in the sink,” says the customer. “Blood coming down like a waterfall.” She leans forward across the counter and taps at a bottle of perfume with one shiny red fingernail. “What’s that one smell like?”

“New shoes,” Hester says. It’s not quite right, but the customer doesn’t notice. They never do.

“I was looking for something woodsy,” says the customer. “Something to make me feel I was really someone, you know?”

“Sure,” Hester says. God, she know this type. Not the sharpest pencil, not by a long shot. “I know just what you mean. How about you hang the bottle around your neck? It’s a perfume; it’s a fashion accessory! Two statements for the price of one.”

A smile spreads across the customer’s face. “Two statements,” she says, as if in awe. “Two statements?”

She’s a lovely girl, though, when she isn’t worrying about this Billy person. The world is filled with lovely girls like that. “Forget about him,” Hester finds herself saying. “Move on. Live in the now, that’s my advice.”

“It is?”

“Sure,” says Hester. She doesn’t say that she’s never taken it herself; that she’s always, personally, preferred the future. She catches a glimpse of her reflection in the glass of the perfume counter, black hair and red lips, with the light buzzing on and off behind her. “Electricity’s on the fritz,” she explains to the customer. “Don’t worry about it.”

The customer is frowning. “Hang it around my neck?” she says, slowly. The lights set the store behind her quivering. Lines of shelves recede into the dark, flicker, return strung out under gluey blue light, bright as a TV screen. The customer’s thick sheet of smooth blonde hair shows white, then blue, then rotten grey. “Around my neck?” she says again. She nods decisively, just as the lights calm down. “That’s a great idea,” she says. “Real great!”

“It is?” Hester can’t keep the surprise out of her voice. Sure, messing with the customers is all that keeps her sane, some days, but they don’t usually mess back.

“Not really, no.” The customer’s voice is suddenly heavy with sarcasm; she rolls her eyes. She looks around her: left; right; down at her face in the glass of the counter, at the white of her smile. “Your daddy was really something,” she tells Hester. There’s a cruel streak of glee in her voice, as if she’s putting her finger right inside some open wound. “For an old guy, that is. I should know.”

Hester stares at her. “Dad died sixteen years ago in Spokane,” she says. “In an explosion.” That’s right, isn’t it? It was some place like Spokane, for certain. Some place you’d only ever want to leave.

The customer shrugs. “Have it your way, then,” she says. Her nails aren’t red after all, Hester realises. They’re dull white, like the scratched-up eyes of something that’s been dead a long, long time. “I’ll tell you something else, though,” the customer continues. “For free.” She reaches over the counter and flicks the name-tag on Hester’s chest. “Call me crazy,” she says, “but I don’t think that’s your real name.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Hester crosses her arms. She’s had about enough of this customer fucking with her. “I think,” she suggests sweetly, “you should leave.”

“That’s what _he_ said.” The customer winks at her. “But, seriously. I know we were doing _The Scarlet Letter_ back in school, but you’re not exactly being creative here, are you? I mean, school was some time ago, wasn't it?"

"What are you talking about?"

"It’s not even accurate,” says the customer. “Not for such a good little daddy’s girl.”

“Fuck you!” Hester blinks and steps back. She’s almost crying, she realises. Almost crying, for no reason at all.

The customer smiles again. “That’s more like it,” she says. “You always did have a bit of fire in you, didn’t you?” She’s digging around under one of her dull white nails, now, as if there’s some dirt there she’s trying to get out. Whatever’s there must be in pretty deep; the customer’s biting her lip.

“Hey,” says Hester. “Don’t hurt yourself.”

“I’m just being literal,” the customer says. She pulls something flat and tiny and square out from under her nail with a flourish. “Ouch,” she says ruefully, shaking her finger. “Here you go.” She pushes the little fragment out across the counter, like a croupier sliding over a poker chip.

It’s a letter, Hester sees. The letter 'A', on a tiny square of paper, printed in dark red ink.

“Live in the now,” the customer says. The way she puts it, it sounds almost mocking. Nasty. “Forget about him. That’s my advice.”

“It is, is it?” Hester shakes her head. “You know it’s not that easy.” She looks down at the little red letter, wincing. “Literal,” she says, incredulously. "Isn't this a little bit ... _obvious_?" Despite herself, though, she smiles. Sure, the nail thing was kind of disgusting, but dead people probably have different standards for that stuff. And, besides, it is kind of funny, isn't it? It sure as hell isn’t boring. “Hey,” she says. “Take a freebie yourself. You wanted a woodsy one, right?”

“I did, yeah.” The customer takes the bottle Hester offers, unscrews the lid, and takes a sniff. “Wow,” she says, wrinkling her nose. “This smells of engine oil. I think I’ll go with the first one you mentioned. If it won’t get you in trouble, that is.”

“Are you kidding?” Hester hits her with a wide, mega-kilowatt smile. “My daddy owns this whole place,” she says. “I won’t get in trouble.”

“Well, in that case. Okay then.” The customer smiles back at her, reaching inside her pocket. “I can pay, though,” she says. “What did you say it smelled like, again?”

“Red shoes,” says Hester. “It smells like red shoes.” She reaches behind her for the bottle of perfume, taking her eyes off the customer for just an instant.

But, when she looks back, the customer is gone. There is only a ring with a green stone in it, rocking gently on the glass surface of the counter, with its double moving underneath it, left and right.

“Laura?” Hester looks around: right; left; down at the glass of the counter. But Laura Palmer isn’t there.

Well, it wasn’t as if they’d ever gotten on, anyway. And that stuff Laura said about her daddy had been just mean, even if it had been - to the best of her considerable knowledge - mostly accurate. She pockets the ring, though. The lights are buzzing, again, and there’s a noise coming from outside. Like a really bad accident. Like a giant, banging his head against the building, over and over. Like the end of the whole damn world.

“Like a waterfall,” says Hester to herself. “Falling down.” There’s no real opening in the counter, so she has to climb over, hiking her skirt up and moving real careful, just in case the glass gives way beneath her. This would have been easier, she thinks, when she was younger. But then, the same is true of quite a lot of things.

She takes the tiny letter with her, as she goes.

It’s easy, after that. She walks past rows of dolls lined up along the shelves, boy dolls with big dark droopy eyes and girl dolls with their long blonde curly hair. The lights behind her flicker and go out. “Say, Laura,” she says, as the lights over her head go out as well, “you know what it’s like, don’t you? Falling?”

The store is dark. But Hester’s almost at the wall. She’s never had a problem, finding her way from there. Buildings open up their secrets to her, just like that. It’s the outside world, really, which has always presented more of a difficulty.

Now, sure enough, she finds the outline of a door. She pauses, though, with her hand on the warm wood of the doorknob. “Laura?” she says again. There’s no answer; only the booming, shuddering dark. “Thanks,” she says, nevertheless. "I guess."

And, holding the ring tight in her pocket, she opens the door in the wall and walks through.

 

\--

 

Her name is Audrey, and she’s taking off her coat and putting it on.

She’s taking off her coat, and putting it on, and Charlie is saying some fucking dumbass bullshit, right there behind her in the mirror.

God, she knows his type, all right. One of these days, she'll snap. Put both her hands around that neck of his. Stub him right out.

Her name is Audrey, and the air around her smells of engine oil.

 

\--

 

And she’s putting off her face, inside the mirror. She’s putting it on.

“Action in five, Sherilyn,” says someone from behind her. Or are they saying, “Hester Prynne?” They do rhyme, after all.

“You’ve got the wrong name,” she says, under her breath. “This isn’t the story of the little girl who lived down the lane, now, is it?”

But the person in the mirror only smiles.

 

\--

 

Her name is Audrey Horne, and she’s standing on a burnt patch on a rock, in a grey field.

There’s a thick ugly smell, cooked flesh and engine oil, and electricity. The aftermath of an explosion, you could say. The air is still, as if between one click and the next. The rock is slick beneath her feet. There is a burned thing, down below her in the grass.

“Richard Horne,” she says, looking down. She remembers everything that happened, after all. One way and another. And it does make a kind of sense, that it was family which pulled her through. Through to the future, in her good red coat. There’s something in her throat, right now. Something that tears, and calls, and makes a roaring like a waterfall. “Goodbye,” she says. “My son.”

She looks around. Out on the hills, the wind is blowing, right, left, through the trees.

She could go home right now; walk in through the Great Northern’s double doors; slip back inside its hollow wooden walls. Kiss Daddy on the cheek; sit at his desk. She’d run a tight ship, even now. The best.

It’s not that easy, though. It never was.

She takes the green ring out of her pocket; slips it on.

 

\--

 

His name is Special Agent Dale Cooper, and he’s waiting for her in the red room, sitting in a chair.

“Aubɿɘy,” he says, “you ƨʜoulbn'ƚ dɘ ʜɘɿɘ.” He looks so old, now. Just as old as her. He’s still dreamy, though. Just dreamy. Always was.

“My name is Audrey,” she tells him. “Audrey Horne.”

“Audrey.” It’s hard for him to go in this direction, she can tell.

“Yes,” she says. “Audrey.”

“Yes, Audrey,” he says. “Audrey, yes.” He levers himself out of the chair, and moves towards her, one foot, then another. He makes a sound, as he comes, like moving trees.

The lights go off; come on.

“You forgot about me, Special Agent Dale Cooper,” she says. “Didn’t you?” She thinks of the rows of boy dolls in the department store, their big dark eyes. “It’s okay,” she tells him. “I did the same thing, when it comes to you. But I’m here,” she says. “I’m here right now.”

Then she steps towards him, herself, her red shoes tap-tap-tapping out across the black and white lines of the floor.

That does it, she can tell. He freezes; lifts his head to look at her.

“I told you, didn’t I,” she says. “That when I wasn’t eighteen any more, you’d better watch out?”

He smiles. It’s a sad smile, though. “Audrey Horne,” he says. “I should tell you, Audrey, that my understanding of this place remains limited. I had hoped, you know,” he says, “that you were elsewhere. Not here.”

“Well, sure as hell I knew you were here,” she says. “The real you, I mean.”

“You remember, then?” He doesn’t look away; he’s not that kind of man. But he sure wants to, she can tell.

“As if I saw it happening, in a dream. I was asleep, you know. Give or take a few watts, here and there.” She holds out one hand towards him; gives him a smile. Her nails – why not? – are painted blazing red. “My Special Agent,” she says, “we’re both here now. Let’s dance.”

His eyes catch on the ring. “Audrey,” he says. “Audrey, what have you done?”

“I came back,” she says. “Special Agent. Just like you.”

“You came back for me?” he asks.

“I came back for me,” she says. It's only half a lie. “Say, Special Agent. Have you ever been exploded into a hundred tiny little pieces, small as this?” She holds up one finger, with, resting on the tip, the small red letter A.

He has to think about it. “Only in metaphorical, or possibly spiritual terms,” he admits. "Arguably not in relation to my physical being."

“Well, there you go,” she says. “That kind of thing gives you a new perspective.”

“On going back?”

“On staying home.” She steps forwards; leans up. Whispers in his ear. “Maybe we’re doing this all backwards,” she says. “Maybe it’s not what year it is that counts.”

His mouth moves, just a little. The edge of horror, or of something worse. For a moment, she’s reminded of how little she knows him, really. But then, he could say the same for her.

“I don't know what time it is," he admits. "I don't know if we've done all this before."

"And I don't give a damn."

The curtains move behind him, like a waterfall. He smiles. Kindness, she thinks. That's always been his problem, and her own. The heavy kind regard of the perfectionist, the person who turns back to get things done.

Now, he extends his hand. "Audrey Horne,” he says. “It's time. Let’s dance.”

The curtains sway, and she sways with them. There’s music in the air, now. Perhaps there always was. “Dale,” she says. “Dale.”

He’s in her arms, solid, alive. They move together, one step, and two, and back. Two statements for the price of one, she thinks, and grips his hand.

“Audrey,” he says, “dancing with you is a quite remarkable experience. I can honestly say that it is one of the most remarkable experiences I can bring readily to mind.”

“You’re not so bad,” she says, “yourself.” She could stay here forever, couldn’t she?

Time and today could tilt, and hold, and stick. She always did have a bit of fire in her, after all. _That's what he said_ , she thinks to herself, and swallows back something almost like a laugh. She could stub out that dreamy face of his, that face she knows so well, can see so close. She could keep him, strung tight, living in the now.

But she knows just what it is really like, to be made to stay.

She spins; holds his hand up. Slips off the ring, and puts it on his finger. Naturally, it fits.

“Wiƚʜ ƚʜiƨ ɿinǫ,” she tells him, “I ƚʜɘɘ wɘb.”

“Audrey,” he says, helpless and dear. “Audrey Horne. No.”

But she is smiling now, and kissing him, red and electric, warm against his lips.

 

\--

 

Her name is Audrey, and she lives inside the Roadhouse.

Listen, Audrey. Who is it, coming in his black shoes, there, through the open door?

Who is it, walking, walking closer, holding up one small red letter in his hand?

 

 


End file.
